


How could you ask me that?

by a_real_archaeopteryx



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Headcanon, Other, charlie faces her fears, hell yeah charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_real_archaeopteryx/pseuds/a_real_archaeopteryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coworker asked me a question today ("what kind of flowers would you want at your funeral?") and it reminded me of Supernatural. Because, you know, death. <br/>And then it made me think of Charlie.<br/>I love Charlie.<br/>I want to think she would be happy with her ending, even if we weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How could you ask me that?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a really really ridiculously long au fic so this is just to tide me over until I can find motivation to continue with that. Anyways here's my Charlie headcanon.

It happens in the breakroom.

“Hey, Shelley!” She looks up, congratulating herself again on her new name. “What about you?” Her new work group leans in eagerly. They’re nice, she guesses. Every tech group at every large company has the same token members, with little to no variations. Then why doesn’t she fit in as well as before?

“Uhh…” She’s blank. “Repeat the question?” A collective groan from around the table. “Sorry guys, way too caught up in my fic.” She holds up her phone as proof. Several of her coworkers laugh and the others nod, understanding. She’s among friends, she reminds herself.

“What kind of flowers would you want at your funeral?”

Her heart becomes a rocket engine, she's sure that the whole building can hear it crashing around her chest. There must be ice running through her veins as her breath catches in her throat.

"I- I've never really thought. About my funeral." Wrong. She had thought about her funeral quite a bit, ever since dad's. But recently, a more terrifying alternative came to mind: she would not get a funeral. Not after Chicago. She would die on her feet, possibly. Fighting, maybe. Or running. Most likely the latter, or on her knees bound and gagged. Her remains would be dumped or possessed, if there were any. If she wasn't eaten.

Once the shock had cleared and her arm had come out of the cast, once she had found a new job and identity and had forgiven the Winchesters just a little bit, she threw herself into the books that had been mentioned in passing. She recognized the covers, from bookstores and conventions, and discovered quickly why she had never bothered to become a fan. They were terrible! Enough self-loathing to surprise even Maury Povich. Death and destruction were more prevalent than happiness; security and comfort were as laughable as the Tooth Fairy. Darkness was everywhere. And there were no giant eagles to swoop in and rescue her, Hermione wouldn't hurry back from the library with a page torn from a book to save the day. She had no Song of Time, no Save Points, no restart buttons. This was life now, and she knew how it would end.

"Lilies, roses, those are pretty common." Her mouth is dry but she manages to choke out something close to a sentence.

This is apparently enough to satisfy her group, as the question is now posed to someone new. She takes her chance to slip back to her desk, willing herself to focus. She was not in danger here. Nothing was coming to get her.

But that's what she thought last time...

She tells herself to breathe deeply, threading her shaking fingers through her hair. Her cell lights up on the desk- Text message- and she picks it up. The phone number is new, like her name, and her contacts are all carefully labeled and categorized. Except two. Her fingers hover over her screen as she pulls up her speed dial list, with just those two numbers. She always comes so close to reaching out, but never has. She knows that the boys didn't have this number. Would they answer? Her arms are heavy and her fingers numb as she struggles to find the words. She pauses before hitting send.

Straightening up to stretch her aching body, she glances at the calendar. July. The sunflowers bloom in July. Her bones begin to warm up and a smile spreads to her cheeks. Those moments seem to be several lifetimes away, walking with her parents in the park. The sunflowers stood taller than she did, like in fairy tales. Weaving through the flower beds, drenched in sunlight, she was an elf queen. Nothing could hurt her while it was so bright. None of the flowers would dare laugh at her. The grass below her was inviting, as no person ever was.

She thinks about funerals now, with grocery store bouquets in ugly plastic vases. Thinks about how awful that is. She knows her funeral will be small, because she spends so much time running. No family. Very few trusted friends. She always dreamed of being like the flowers, and realizes that she finally understands what that means. Sunflowers only last the season. Sunflowers are beautiful and laugh at the world. Sunflowers stand tall for a small number of crucial days. Sunflowers could be pulled from the ground and wilt.

But the sunflowers still line the roads as far as she's concerned. Hundreds of miles away and she can still picture the blankets of yellow and brown. She thinks of the flower petals that still fall from in between the pages of her much beloved books, and the knots begin to unwind.

I will stand like a sunflower and I will die like a sunflower.


End file.
